


We Will All Be Changed

by jessaverant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Kink Meme, Near-Death Experience, Overdosing, Pre-Series, Sherlock being a prat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessaverant/pseuds/jessaverant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes had to hit the bottom of the well before he began to climb into the light. One tired detective inspector was not only the only person to lend him a helping hand, he was the only person to drop him the ladder out. (Based on father-son kink meme prompt)</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Will All Be Changed

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt: Lestrade thinks of Sherlock as a son and Sherlock thinks of Lestrade as a father. Whether it is deaged Sherlock, sick Sherlock, pre-series Sherlock going through withdrawals, or just a regular case, I would love to see Lestrade acting as a father figure towards Sherlock.
> 
> I hope this is anything like what the OP wanted....

_“Eight hours,” he said as smoke trailed from his nostrils. Greg Lestrade perked his eyebrows as he lit his own cigarette, leaning back against the wall to avoid the beginning of what promised to be a full rain storm._

_“Eight hours?” Lestrade inquired, taking that first, soulful taste. The smoke filled his lungs and the livewire of his brain took a back seat for the first time since that morning. The young man to his left, who had dutifully given him a cigarette and loaned his silver lighter, closed his eyes in a state of nicotine bliss._

_“Fewer, if the timing is right,” the young Sherlock Holmes said, glancing with only his eyes to the Detective Inspector. His lips curled up just so, making his far-too-thin face even sharper and somehow darker._

_“How will I know? Should I come to you?” Lestrade asked. Another breath, another calm moment passing far too quickly. Sherlock shook his head._

_“I’ll be here tomorrow morning.”_

That was two days ago.

Lestrade was standing on the stoop of a tiny set of flats, set far back and with a dirty front door. Montague Street was not a place he frequented, and the strange layout with the unappealing flats certainly didn’t make him want to come by more often

He was only doing it to drag out one Sherlock Holmes. Tuesday morning came and went, with no word from Sherlock. Lestrade was already on his last leg with this case as it was, and the pressure from his team was bearing down on him. _How could he trust such a strange man,_ they wondered aloud, and finally, as Wednesday dawned, Lestrade knew he had to solve the mini-mystery of Sherlock.

_“Just forget about him and move on with the case,” someone had helpfully offered, someone who didn’t even think that Sherlock was all that bad. Eighteen months of bringing Sherlock into Scotland Yard, and somehow not every single person within hated the man._

_“It’s more than that,” Lestrade responded, wiping his brow. “He is a man of his word.”_

After a lengthy discussion with the disagreeable landlord, Lestrade gained access to the upper floors and stopped at an unassuming door… with an overwhelming smell of sulfur coming through it.

With an air of caution, Lestrade tried the door, found it unlocked, and crossed the threshold into a room that hadn’t seen sunlight in a very, _very_ long time. The smell of sulfur was drowned by the sudden stench of burnt chemicals and something… moldy. Lestrade’s eyes watered and his call of “Sherlock?” was muffled by a burning cough.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” he muttered, leaning up against a side table by the door. A haze lingered in the air and as his sight cleared, Lestrade saw a table that rivaled any great chemistry lab. Two Bunsen burners were still lit, albeit only one with a beaker, and upwards of ten other beakers and bowls covered the entire table. There was once a homely tartan table cloth beneath the experiments, but it had been stained and burnt beyond recognition.

The haze in the room was coming primarily from the open burner and two of the beakers sitting near the edge of the table. Lestrade peered inside and immediately regretted it, for he was hit with a face-full of something vaguely familiar and yet entirely foreign.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade called again, covering his mouth and nose with a kerchief. As Lestrade moved about the flat, he wandered through a tiny kitchen, where unpacked groceries were sitting on a tiny counter and things in labeled jars lined the open cabinets.

“My God, Sherlock,” Lestrade muttered to himself as his eyes widened, “you’re _wasted_ as a detective.” Although the flat resembled some of the more _ambitious_ methamphetamine labs he’d seen, the scientific precision with which things were labeled and arranged calmed Lestrade’s nerves. Sherlock was a heavy smoker, and although he’d never once seen nor heard Sherlock use or mention any other illicit substances, Lestrade knew enough addicts to recognize one in his presence. He was also certain that, at the tail end of a case, the exuberant, exhilarated, wide-eyed Sherlock jittered a bit too much for just excitement.

When Lestrade first entered the flat, he had the sinking feeling that Sherlock was cooking up something a bit more than detective work, and he felt that Sherlock was validated with these notes and clear lab reports—

Until he bumped into the shoebox of hypodermic needles. It was sitting on a chair in the kitchen beside the counter, open, plain as day, and Lestrade’s heart plummeted into his shoes.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he murmured, staring down at the box. “Please don’t—Sherlock?” he spun on his heel, heart pounding, at the sound of a soft gasp from deeper in the flat. “Sherlock? Is that you? Are you here?” He walked through the kitchen and into a tiny hallway, to see a door ajar towards the end. Light was pouring out of it, and for the first time, Lestrade realized he could hear the sound of running water.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered, running towards the door. He opened it slowly to reveal a small washroom, the tap running at a slow pace. A used needle sat on the very edge of the sink.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade said very softly. The washroom was ridiculously small, and one glance would have told him that Sherlock wasn’t there, if it weren’t for the toes poking out of the bath tub. Lestrade pounded the door open and ran to the edge of the tub, peering over the edge. The sight he saw was enough to freeze him completely in his place.

Beneath him, Sherlock was crumpled into the bathtub, his head and neck twisted at an uncomfortable angle, all his long limbs cramped inside with the exception of his left leg, extended. His left shirt sleeve was rolled up and an angry purple-blue bruise glared at Lestrade from his inner elbow. Blood bathed his face and hair, his lips coated as he lay. The tap in the tub had dried blood on its edge, and upon glancing back up at the sink, Lestrade saw there was blood there as well.

_“There might be something wrong,” Lestrade offered as he grabbed his wallet from his desk. “If I haven’t heard from him when he tells me he’ll contact me, something is probably wrong.”_

_“Doesn’t he have any friends you can check with?” the officer asked. Lestrade’s shoulders hunched._

_“No, he doesn’t.”_

“Shit,” was all Lestrade could say, and his stomach was so twisted in knots that he wanted to vomit.

He resisted the urge and instead leaned over, into the tub, placing his hands as gently as possible on Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. The young man’s pulse was thin, but present, and his chest rose with breath. He was unconscious.

“Oh, thank Christ,” he said as he felt along his neck for any broken vertebrae or fracturing. From what he could deduce, Sherlock had somehow hit his head and fallen, hitting his head _again_ as he crumpled into the bath tub. How long he’d been there, Lestrade couldn’t say for sure, but Lestrade _had_ to move him as soon as possible.

Sherlock’s clothes hung from him like a poorly-dressed skeleton, and his limbs were heavy as Lestrade tried to inspect his head. He took one delicate wrist in his hand reached out with his other hand to gently round Sherlock’s face. He ignored the stench of _addict_ and shuffled Sherlock onto his shoulders, taking him out of the bath tub as slowly as he could.

The hallway was relatively clean, with a barren wood floor, and Lestrade wobbled over, setting the detective down feet-first. He grabbed his mobile and called for backup as he took a washcloth, wet it with lukewarm water, and dropped to his knees beside the still Sherlock.

“Yes, I have a suspected overdose—victim is male, in his late twenties to early thirties, forty-six Montague Street,” Lestrade muttered as he shoved the mobile between cheek and shoulder, sweat dripping down his face. He was surprised he could speak over the pounding of his heart as he gently mopped up Sherlock’s brow, neck and chest. His skin was ashen, grey, devoid of any life, and his veins popped so clearly it was as if Lestrade were viewing a medical model.  “There is a possible history of substance and drug abuse. He’s—he’s someone I know,” Lestrade offered, swallowing the stone that had lodged in his throat. Lestrade jumped to his feet, fetched cold water from the tap, and returned to Sherlock’s side.

“I’m not positive as to when he took the final hit that sent—ack!” and Lestrade dropped his mobile to the floor. As soon as the cold water hit Sherlock’s face his eyes snapped open, his breath coming in horrendous gasps. He seemed frozen in place, eyes staring straight up, and Lestrade lifted his head and gently rolled him onto his side, where the momentum and gravity took over. Sherlock’s shoulders hunched violently and he curled up as he vomited onto the hallway floor, not that there was anything coming out of him aside from water and bile. The young detective attempted to push himself up as he coughed but Lestrade grabbed his shoulders, gently laying him back down on his side.

Sherlock’s head lolled against Lestrade’s thigh, his eyes half-open, breathing in shattered gasps.

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” Lestrade said. He held his hand just above Sherlock’s head, and after a moment of thought, buried it within Sherlock’s unkempt curls, lightly stroking his scalp. Lestrade had never been entirely convinced that Sherlock was completely human, but this, _this—_ vice and failure, what could be _more_ human?

Sherlock responded to the action by opening his eyes wide and stretching his neck back, staring up at Lestrade. His eyes were so bloodshot it made his irises pop, and all Lestrade saw was utter _terror._ Blue-white-red shone from Sherlock’s almond-shaped eyes, although they were stretched round in that moment vulnerability. Terror, shame, confusion, _humiliation,_ it all rocketed through Sherlock’s expression before he lost it and his head lolled, eyes sinking into the depths of a worn face. Lestrade stammered in shock, unbelieving of what he just witnessed. His throat dry, Lestrade attempted to speak again to Sherlock, pulling his head back against his thigh and running his hand through his bangs, pulling them back to see his face better as sirens cut through the thick air.

“Sherlock, stay awake,” Lestrade finally managed. “C’mon, now, stay awake.” Now that he had Sherlock in a safe place (the safest place his children claimed) he was reluctant to give him up to the paramedics, who would be there soon. Sherlock coughed, gagged and trembled, pulling his arms into himself, gripping his own elbows. Lestrade caught glances of older track marks running along his skin. Lestrade managed to edge away from his surprise and slid back into his police-mode.

“Sher-lock,” Lestrade said again, stressing each syllable. “Just hold on a bit longer, I think help is nearly here.” Lestrade turned him onto his side again, as it seemed as if he was about to vomit, this time running a hand up and down his side. Each individual bone in his ribcage pressed against his skin, and it made Lestrade shiver. _How could I have missed the signs?_ he thought to himself. _How could I not notice how deep in he was?_

“Ngh,” Sherlock said in a hoarse voice. Lestrade leaned closer to him.

“Just keep making sounds, Sherlock, that’s it—”

“Notes,” Sherlock managed, his voice barely above a whisper. Lestrade froze in his place, the sirens outside surrounding him. Sherlock took a deep breath.

“Notes. Green.” He coughed and heaved a painful sigh.

“What? Sherlock, I don’t—”

Someone pounding on the front door interrupted Lestrade from his questions and he ran down to greet the paramedics and other officers who had arrived on the scene, some of whom were placating the other tenants and the unarguable land lord.

He led the paramedics up to the flat, allowing them to push the gurney in before him as he followed. Sherlock flexed his shoulders as he was touched, almost in a defensive way, before giving in and allowing himself to be strapped into the bed. Lestrade stood back, close enough to watch Sherlock’s face twist and grimace, but far enough away to give them room to work.

“Pardon, Detective Inspector,” one of the paramedics said, rushing to Sherlock’s side with a large box. Lestrade stepped back into the center of the flat, near the scientific lab table that Sherlock had set up. The dankness of the room weighed on Lestrade’s shoulders, as if trying to suffocate him into submission, as it had done to Sherlock. The detective inspector chose to focus on the table itself instead, running his eyes over the collection of test tubes and—

There, on a chair beside the table, was a bright green plastic notebook that seemed oddly out-of-place. A mobile that Lestrade recognized as Sherlock’s sat on top of it, and his eyes widened as he understood.

“Sorry, Detective Inspector, you have to move a bit,” one of the paramedics said to him and he jumped back, allowing the medics to work. They had just lifted the stretcher back onto the gurney, and Lestrade held his breath as they rushed out, one paramedic holding a clear plastic bag over Sherlock’s mouth and nose.

“Will he be alright?” Lestrade asked one of the remaining medics, who was packing up the used syringe to bring with them. She bit her lower lip and glanced around the room.

“Let’s see what this tells us,” she said, holding up the bag she had just placed the syringe in. “We’ll let you know.” And he was left alone in the flat.

* * *

 

Lestrade didn’t sleep for twenty-eight hours. Between the unusually unbearable heat swallowing London and the sudden insights via Sherlock’s notebook into their case, he barely had time or energy to sleep. Whenever he had a spare moment, his thoughts flitted back to Sherlock, the image of him slumped over in the corridor burned into his mind. He’d received word that Sherlock had been pumped clean, woken up and was on his way to detoxification, which gave Lestrade a bit more energy than he’d anticipated.

With only an hour to spare before yet _another_ trial and after only forty-five minutes of a nap, Greg Lestrade strode into University College Hospital two days after finding Sherlock Holmes passed out in his washroom. He’d gotten a call from Mycroft Holmes’s assistant, only to discover that the irritable politician he’d worked with in the past was actually related to Sherlock, and was now headed down to his room to speak with the detective.

Sherlock wore an expression that thoroughly described how Lestrade felt, and when Sherlock glanced up from his bed, the cheap, paper gown enveloping him like an overgrown child, Lestrade was caught between relief and frustration.

“I see you’ve taken a stance against sleeping,” was the first thing Sherlock said as Lestrade closed the door. He was sitting back against his pillow, fiddling with what appeared to be a brand-new mobile phone. Lestrade pocketed his hands and stared down at Sherlock, his eyes red-rimmed.

“Yeah, it happens with drug rings and forced prostitution,” Lestrade responded grimly, and Sherlock glanced upwards at him. There was a chair sitting next to the bed, and Lestrade wanted nothing more than to collapse into it, but he knew if he did, he wouldn’t get back up.

“On your way to prosecute, then?” Sherlock inquired, his voice on the edges of being hoarse. He eyed the chair beside his bed and then turned his entire head to face Lestrade, inviting him to sit. Lestrade resisted.

“I see you’re feeling better,” Lestrade commented, sitting back on his heels. The air in the room tightened. Sherlock, still staring right at him, said nothing. His eyes widened a fraction every vein under his skin became very visible. It was almost if the light had brightened and the sheer translucency of his skin became more obvious. It made Lestrade want to hold him again. There was, however, a small matter to discuss with the detective.

Lestrade stared down at Sherlock, sighed, and slumped into the chair beside Sherlock’s bed.

“What, on God’s green earth, were you thinking?” Lestrade asked after another minute of silence. His voice had lowered in volume, and Sherlock was still staring right at him, his hands no longer fiddling in his lap. Lestrade allowed his fatigue to slump over him and he folded in on himself, running his hands over his face. He sighed heavily through his hands. “Why would you— _concoct,_ let alone _take,_ synthetic drugs?” Lestrade lifted his head, his hands folded underneath his chin. Sherlock settled back into his pillow but his shoulders were still ramrod straight. His lips were pinched, eyes clear and focused, and Lestrade somehow felt as if _he_ were being given an interrogation, not Sherlock.

“An experiment,” Sherlock offered, his left shoulder giving an involuntary twitch.

“An experiment in _what?_ ” Lestrade asked. His legs didn’t feel as tired as when he first arrived at the room, but he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to stand.

“You need rest,” Sherlock said, ignoring Lestrade’s question. Sherlock, although still quick-witted, was suffering himself from fatigue, and Lestrade could see it in his face. It was the first time Lestrade had really seen Sherlock struggled under the breadth of his mind with such a weak body.

“So do you,” Lestrade responded, leaning his elbows on the edge of the bed. Something beeped softly somewhere in the room behind them. “Sherlock, you’re—you could have _died_ , Sherlock,” Lestrade said, trying to keep his voice even, but the deluge of questions broke through. “If I hadn’t been coming around to you—and why on _earth_ were you fooling around with—whatever that was, and you had all the answers written down?”

“So you did get the notebook, then,” Sherlock said, but his voice had softened. His eyelids drooped, and he folded his hands in his lap.

“Yes, I did. Sherlock, I—help me _understand_ what happened,” Lestrade pleaded. “You’re in hot water over at Scotland Yard, and they’re on the verge of not allowing you access anymore to cases.” _That_ set Sherlock on edge, and his eyes flicked down to his bony fingers. His throat constricted in a swallow and Lestrade _swore_ he saw sweat on his brow. Lestrade stared at Sherlock for another minute before declaring defeat, when Sherlock spoke.

“I… needed assistance,” Sherlock admitted, in shame. The hopeless tone edging his deep voice made Lestrade freeze through to his bones. “I didn’t have _all_ of the case put together quite yet.”

“So, what, you’re making synthetic drugs for who—for someone for information? Christ, Sherlock, I—” but Sherlock shook his brilliant head, clenching his hands in fists.

“Not from elsewhere. From within. From _me,_ ” he said, and he finally brought his eyes to Lestrade’s once more. That same frightened, child-like expression radiated from those eyes, and Lestrade sat back, his hands on his lap.

“I didn’t have it, Lestrade, there was something _missing,_ and… my thoughts weren’t focused, weren’t—straightening out, so I thought perhaps I could create something to bolster that stimulus,” Sherlock explained, not explaining anything in Lestrade’s mind. He sat-open mouthed, his head tilted in confusion.

“So… drugs,” he responded.

“No, something… similar,” Sherlock said. “I’ve studied chemistry my entire life, Lestrade, I know what I’m—”

“Don’t you _dare_ say you know what you’re doing,” Lestrade interrupted, arms crossed against his chest. “You could have _died,_ Sherlock Holmes, and if I hadn’t come looking for you _you would have._ ”

“I do, in fact, know what I’m doing,” Sherlock said quietly, looking put-off. “I simply miscalculated. Perhaps conducting the study while under the influence of—”

“Just… don’t finish that sentence,” Lestrade pleaded, holding up his hand. “You are not, under _any_ circumstances, to _ever_ use anything, _of any kind,_ while on a case for me. Do you understand? Because you’re going to have to sign for your rights to work with me, and you’re lucky.” Sherlock was still leaning back in his bed, the sweat having taken over his entire body. Lestrade leaned forward, speaking gentler. “You’re going to stay here, and you’re going to detox, okay? And then you may see the results of the trial.” Lestrade leaned back, ignoring his vibrating mobile in his pocket. Sherlock stared back, looking hopelessly small in the huge bed.

“My brother would have shown up, eventually,” Sherlock said after a moment’s silence.

“He came a bit late, didn’t he?” Lestrade asked. “Sherlock, I came looking for you because _I care._ I fought tooth and nail for you to remain a consultant _because I care._ I know you _think_ you’re the best but there are others out there who aren’t such a liability but—I work well with you, surprisingly,” Lestrade admitted, “and I—I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Sherlock’s face remained neutral as Lestrade stood, finally succumbing to the monster in his pocket. He had four missed calls and four presumably angry voice mails to tend to.

“I’ve told the nurses what you like,” Lestrade added as he stood in the doorway. “Or what you’d actually eat to put some weight on you. I’ll be round tomorrow.” And with that, Lestrade left, leaving Sherlock alone in his room.

It wasn’t long until Lestrade checked his mobile again in the cab and saw a number of texts.

_Early?_

_I’m not sure I can take these people much longer._

_It’d be nice to have more pasta._

_I’m sorry. SH_

He never used on one of Lestrade’s cases again.


End file.
